


No Faster An End

by unsettled



Category: Sherlock Holmes (2009)
Genre: Angst, Cocaine, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-04
Updated: 2010-07-04
Packaged: 2017-10-10 09:21:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/98097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unsettled/pseuds/unsettled
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My heart stutters at the sight of the needle buried in pale skin, nestled among the marks of previous encounters, and I am a fool to think I could have distracted him for any length of time</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Faster An End

**Author's Note:**

> Fill for this kink meme prompt: _I know cocaine wasn't in the film, but I've been dying for this fic for ages, but um, I'd really like to see a Holmes bottom, but shooting up while Watson does him fic. _

"Holmes, have you seen this article yet? It's fascinating what…"

He doesn't have to look up to see how Watson's face has changed. To recognize the stillness, the shift of features that sign dismay, and distress, and disapproval, and other things the Holmes dismisses. He doesn't have to look up. But he does anyway.

And it's all there, written in the tightness around the lips, the stiffening jaw line, the furrowing brow. "Why is it you never knock, I wonder? Especially being as you are the one so concerned with privacy?" He is mild, but the words are a provocation none the less.

There is a beat before Watson speaks, and his answer is only half considered, his mind on other things. "I suppose it is because I assume that if you truly do not want me to see something, you would lock the door." His eyes are fixed to the needle in Holmes' hand, caught in the gleam of it. He raises his eyes to ones of lidded grey. "Why didn't you lock the door?"

Holmes cannot answer, because he is not sure himself. But he will not tell this to Watson. Instead, "What is this article you find so fascinating?"

"It can wait." Watson sets the paper aside, stepping forward to stand before him, gazing down at him, and then Watson is kneeling before him, almost on level, his hand catching Holmes' on the needle, eyes full of the things he cannot bring himself to say. If he can, Holmes thinks, he will bring him to say those things. If not this time, soon. Before he is gone.

"Holmes." Watson swallows, a rasp, words fighting their way out. Holmes is silent, waiting. "Holmes. You don't need this, you don't. There are cases waiting, surely one can catch your mind, or we can find some amusement. You needn't indulge quite yet."

"Nothing of interest, Watson. Nothing out there is as fascinating as what is in here."

"Holmes, please. Please don't. I hate this; I am so sick of watching you play with destruction. Just, just tell me what you need, Holmes. What can I do?" His hands are eloquent in a way his words cannot be, gentle on Holmes' arms, ghosting pleas against his skin. Holmes smiles.

"What I need, Watson, you cannot provide." Watson's hands still, his eyes full to overflowing with things he does not know how to say, and then he is leaning in, closer than he has ever chosen to be. Holmes wonders what it was that broke Watson's hold on propriety this time, that was not present before, and Watson is kissing him, desperate and fearful, and Holmes thinks that maybe there is something Watson can provide him with after all.

He says nothing, only lets his grip on the syringe loosen, lets Watson draw it away, lets himself be pressed to the bed, Watson's hands gentling him, lets this happen, and lets himself enjoy what's to come, because all possible paths he can see stretching from this moment end in misery.

*

He is quiet beneath me, in voice and in body, allowing my touch, acceding to my wordless requests, and I have wanted him so long. I wish that I might have known to offer myself in place of the cocaine earlier, so that both our desires could have been realized. He is too thin, too angular, too pale, and those things speak to me of fragility, though he has never shown himself to be less than whole. If I can fix him, if I can find a way to repair the damage he inflicts on himself, I will. I will give up everything to do so.

I bend my head to learn the taste of his skin, to leave a mark of possession on the nub of clavicle, and he moves beneath me, languid, as my hands move down his body, followed by my lips, teasing out unplanned movements and inarticulate sounds. He is flushed against my skin, and I am fascinated by his hipbones, the shift of skin stretched taut, the musk scent drifting upwards. I could lose myself in him, and never regret it.

He asks for more with the spread of legs, with the roll of his hips, with the tangling of his fingers in my hair, and I will give him more. He shudders under my touch; I glance up the long planes of his body as I open him up, and my breath catches at the angles of his body, at the splay of his hands, at the tension of tendons as his head falls back, at the breaths that cannot pass for anything but gasps.

I slide into him slow, slow, slow, and he shifts and rolls, impatient, but I am not teasing him. I am desperate to last a moment beyond the second I am flush against him, deep within, and I cannot breathe. He is tight, a degree only below burning, and I have never wanted anything more. I remind myself of the taste of his neck as I move, finally, holding onto my control by the barest of threads. His hands disappear from my back, and his shoulders shift, but I am lost in sensation. At the edge of consciousness, I hear the sound of something familiar, and the body below me twists.

I am lost, unable to stop the fire building in my belly, flicking through my veins, rushing to my cock. My head rises as I gasp out completion, and it is then that I can see what Holmes is doing. My heart stutters at the sight of the needle buried in pale skin, nestled among the marks of previous encounters, and I am a fool to think I could have distracted him for any length of time. Orgasm releases me, and he follows as I collapse, trembling arms unable to support me. I breathe a moment, fighting back blackness, before I reach for his arm. He lets me, and a glance at his face shows me he is already far away. The wound is slight, a bare drop of blood welling from the puncture. I press my lips to the point of entry, proof of my inabilities. I have never felt more futile. I rest my face against the thin skin and blink furiously. He may be too far away to notice, but I will not cry.

*

Holmes is drifting, the slide of Watson's skin an exquisite counterpart to the slide of cocaine within his blood. No good will come of this path, but it is no faster an end than any other. He feels the kiss of eyelashes on his skin, and is not surprised when it beings to rain.


End file.
